


To be a Wizard

by Cers



Series: Essek Week 2020 [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dunamancy is sexy yo, Essek Week, magic is fun, might get a bit dark, prompt: wizard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cers/pseuds/Cers
Summary: Magic.The lingering tingle of controlling warp and weft. Of weaving the arcane, tapping into forces unseen and making them known. Harnessing energy for his own will. Of sowing esoteric seeds and reaping the enchanting harvest.This is what he was enraptured by. Captivated by.Thisis what it was to be a wizard.
Series: Essek Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683388
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34
Collections: Essek Week





	To be a Wizard

Magic.  
  
The lingering tingle of controlling warp and weft. Of weaving the arcane, tapping into forces unseen and making them known. Harnessing energy for his own will. Of sowing esoteric seeds and reaping the enchanting harvest.

This. 

_This_ is what he was enraptured by. Captivated by. 

His first spell was _light_. A glowing palm, a bright-lit face. Eyes wide with wonder, breath stolen in a moment of awe. A crossroad of possibility in the mind of a child- and the path was chosen.

It was a walk at first, then a jaunt. Almost overnight he was running and leaping off a very high cliff. There was no turning back from then on out. 

_This_ is what it is to be a wizard.

Magic came to him with a naturality like no other activity. It was innate, it was _known_ \- and yet so much lay unfounded before him. Everything about it clicked, and that only made him more hungry. 

His early days are dedicated to cantrips. Simple, effective, useful spells. Each hand wave was a dance, going from point-to-point and painting unseen in dimensional space. It was about intent, aim, _resolve_. 

Action. 

Decades pass, but the fascination never fades. It’s the one constant in his life- the push and pull. The mystery, intrigue, and enigmas of _all_ the schools of magic _._

But there was one that ensorcelled and enchanted him like no other. Nothing ever came _close_.  
_  
_ Dunamancy.  
  
The name itself is a prayer on his lips, whispered with reverence every time he speaks it. It's the peak of his wonder, the neverending mass that just gets deeper and bigger the further he goes. It swallows him _whole_ \- magnetic, captivating. It’s the trap he steps into, time and time again, for the benefits outweigh any detriment. 

When he first learns of it, he is young. It is a concept netted in his culture so intrinsically he was never going to be able to escape it really. When he hears the name spoken aloud, he is besotted. _Dunamancy_. Dunamis. The words almost an invocation of their own, so languidly did they sit on his tongue. 

And there were two branches in particular that held his temptation. 

Time. It was a construct of mortals' own making. A weave of entangled metaphysics so enmeshed with the laws of the universe that he would often get lost and lost and lost- just _trying_ to undo even the humblest of transitory knots. And he would tug, and pull, and pinch, and clamber, pick, and decipher- all to get a closer look into the enigmas of the cosmos and its fundamentals. 

Yet they never budged, these complicated tangents. Never shifted. He was never allowed an inch of give. So he changed tactics. 

To understand something so grand, so _cavernous_ , he had to start small on the micro level. It starts with the language of science- numbers. 

Constants, variables, equations, calculations, figures, _unknowns-_ soon his mind is filled with them. Understand the physical, the tangible, the _observable_ , before looking deeper. Learn how the world around him works naturally, before starting to manipulate it magically. 

The fabric of reality - it’s not just one. It’s multiple, manifold. All super-imposed, intertwined, interlinked, twisted, and encircled. It’s spliced around itself, on itself, _in_ itself- with all the other stratums and then some. The veils between planes, between his understanding and the truth, were so layered, so _complex_ that an artist could take an infinity to sculpt it and only be a fraction done. 

And he shivered at the thought. 

Notions, perceptions, abstractions, and designs- he imbibes it all. He spends hours, days, weeks, meditating and absorbing. Dancing on the precipice of this daring event horizon, tempting himself to jump in further. And when he succeeds at rolling time back, just for a moment, just in the immediate locale around him- he weeps. 

Oh, to be a _wizard_.

It really is possible. All the stories are _true._

There was so much to explore, so much to learn, find out- discover. And he had barely scratched the surface. Time was ineffable, it was chaos. It was unreliable, it was dependable. It was forward-moving, it was as directionless as space. It was impossible and inevitable. Neverending and already over, unconceived, all at once. An expanse of oscillating transient tides and waves, dragging him under, spouting him high. He had barely dipped into this multitude and was already parched for more. 

So he stops dancing on the edge, and dives with ease. Gravity is next. 

A concept so ironically dense it cannot be understood on a substantial level. It has no physical form, no tangible body. All it is, is _effects._ The evidence of it is visible. The force it expends is undeniable yet it cannot be grasped, contained, or held. 

It can be measured. Tested. Proven. 

But it couldn’t be _altered._ Not yet. 

At least not by him- so his next scolarly hurdle takes shape. 

The day he discovers levitation is the day he takes off soaring, and never returns to the ground. 

There’s something so distressingly _satisfying_ about defying natural order. What goes up, must come down- but he takes so much joy in delaying that. As though crowing over his defiance. Wizards and arcanists alike have done so for years. Millenia. As long as magic itself could be grabbed, wrought, and wielded. 

To join the ranks of the privileged few able to tap into such arcane potential.. To be one of the even fewer with access to the teachings of challenging a force no more natural than _gravity-_

_Oh._ To _be_ a wizard.

It was truly a most wondrous thing. 

But the applications were theoretically _limitless_. Time itself was theoretically limitless. His own, however, was _not_. And society will not let him hole up with his books, and thoughts, fixations and obsessions. 

Expecations called. Called him away from his studies, towards his Den, the court. “Duty.”

But as was the way with the magnetic attraction of gravity, his tomes pull him home against his will, eventually. 

He still studies, in his own space now. Gravity is his to wield. Density is a fickle toy to be abstracted with. Increase, decrease. Alter and change. The ability to hold inanimate objects in _place_. He masters it all. He discovers (his) limitations, and feverishly scrawls out page after page on notes and whys and hows and maybes and what-abouts--

But it’s a start. He can feel the urge to go further engulf him in this well of boundless uncertainty. With its fragmented possibilities, shattered into pieces of reality and perpetual continuity. He was a slave to it all. 

Ah, to be a wizard. 

And when she lashes forward, chained limbs raised to cause a cry of anguish- _well_. He just picks her up, like an afterthought, and waits for a command. 

And she holds there, struggling. Straining. Against gravity, her metallic bindings. Her rapidly diminishing lack of air. The spell.

Him. 

He watches the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth pulse and seep faster. A steady drip-drop-drip on the cold stone floor. A little starts in the corner of her rapidly-reddening eyes-

And then a crimson hand comes down, and he _squeezes._ It’s so simple now. A flick of the wrist, a bending of practised fingers. The mathematics involved are so innate, so _intuitive_ to him now- numbers and figures darting across his mind in a singular moment. In between a breath and a beat, he expels the local gravity around her central mass and reverses it twice as quickly in a release of violent energy-- 

Her target lies six inches from her face and he doesn’t even flinch. The bolts have become crushed coming out of the walls and fastenings so _forcefully. T_ he rattling of the chains tumbling to the floor in their release fills his mind like a chilling orchestra. Clink-clink- clinkclinkclink- 

The result is gruesome, terrible, and crunching. It’s vile, and vulgar. The remains have been bereft and masticated, all that’s left being a pile of bone, sinew, and sanguine anguish. 

A befitting end for one of her standing. Befitting of someone who would do one of his charges harm. 

Hmm, _yes_. To be a wizard. 

And when the Archmage of Civic Influence attempts to crawl away from him, beaten, bloodied, bested- he slowly walks up to it. The hourglass lays shattered behind him, its intended use fulfilled*. A soiled trail shows the efforts of his fissure and its performance. It was effective, to say the least. 

The leftover human drags itself with its feeble arms, attempting to scramble away in some sick, sluggish fashion. It’s tragic. It’s delicious. Its hunter watches on almost bored. He floats on over, the battle finished, ignoring the new scars gained across his face and hands. 

His shadow is long, and obscure as it passes over this pathetic figure attempting escape. A sneer curls his lips. So he crouches before him, this human worm, halting its progress. A rapidly-aged face, more wrinkles and yellow than person, looks to him fearful. Petrified. 

Good. 

Bone-white fingers reach out to grab his cloak. He shakes them off with disgust. 

“You hurt my friend.” he whispers, with a velvet smile. “And _that_ , I simply cannot forgive.” 

He straightens, and rights his mantle. There is one last thing to end this. The finale.

It’s the simplest thing now- to levitate something after so many years of practice. And so he brings out from his pouch a single slice of green crystal. It’s just a plain shard, cut to a common shape. Nothing fancy, or lavish. Not for this purpose. _It_ doesn’t deserve such consideration and regard. 

Manoeuvring it in place, arm outstretched, he spares one final look to the ‘man’ at his feet. He lengthens the moment locally, _just for them_. Just for a few seconds, to make it feel e t e r n a l.  
  
There is whimpering, and pleading, and wretched, mouthless begging. Cries of ‘please’ and ‘no’ and ‘ _sorrys_ ’ and empty promises of falsehoods-

And it _all_ just falls on deaf, pointed ears. 

This juncture temporal spans and spans. It’s tortuous and swollen. All the potential held in a single degree. All due to his whim. 

Oh yes, he thinks. It _will_ feel the terror what it inflicted magnified a hundredfold. 

“ _This_ ,” he speaks softly with a modest tilt of his head. “Is for _him_.” 

Gravity is controlled with practised hubris, and earned arrogance. The shard begins its descent at a painstaking pace, and when it reaches the base of the neck, it bores in slowly. It twists, burrows, mutilates, severs, butchers and _mangles_ -

There is screaming, and wailing- what could be translated as that anyway. It’s masked with dark gurgles and flailing. It’s an ugly sight to witness, such trembling and lashing. But it is no less than it deserves. 

And when the shard is fully in, and the body no longer thrashing about, the revenge is finally had. So the torment reached its end. He releases the spell and inhales deeply. 

Ahh, **_yes_ **. 

_To be a wizard._

**Author's Note:**

> *Time Ravage: You target a creature you can see within range, putting its physical form through the devastation of rapid aging. 
> 
> For Essek Week 2020 from the tumblr prompts (thanks to Jak!!). As always, my love to the ETFC discord server. Y'all a bunch of nutters keeping me sane atm <3 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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